


Muse

by phroobin



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Enemies to Friends, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Enemies to Lovers, Gay, Good Omens References, Historical References, Idiots in Love, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), M/M, Queer History, Queer Themes, Slow Burn, Slow Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-16
Updated: 2019-06-21
Packaged: 2020-05-12 23:11:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,870
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19239031
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/phroobin/pseuds/phroobin
Summary: There was an uncomfortable silence as Aziraphale moved some of the papers around and Crowley’s fists clenched involuntarily.“I’m sorry,” the demon spat, jaw set. “Are my ears deceiving me, Angel, or did you just imply that you slept with Oscar Wilde?”--A study in how many queer figures a certain Angel may or may not have inspired creatively over the millennia. Crowley is jealous, and water is wet. Multi-chaptered. Slow burn.





	1. Wilde About Him

he April following Armageddidn’t was shaping up to be particularly soggy. It was as if the Almighty was sulking with humanity, twisting the previously innocent phrase “April Showers” into “April Floods” or perhaps the less nice but somewhat accurate “April Bloody Tsunamis”, both of which were much more representative of the general mood both upstairs and down.  
                  With the Apocalypse averted and Heaven and Hell in a state of confusion, Crowley had been very thankful that there weren’t any whisperings of a Noah’s Ark 2 in the pipeline[1], but after being nearly drowned in a sudden downpour and later almost taken out by a falling tree in St James’s Park[2], Crowley had felt suitably attacked and had solemnly barricaded himself in his Mayfair flat.  
                  That had been two days ago.  
                  After 48 hours of sleeping, punctured only by the occasional watching of the rain running rivulets down the window panes as he waited for the phone to ring, or wonderful moments of distraction where Crowley spoke encouraging words to his beloved plants[3], he was itching to _get out_. If Crowley were being honest with himself, really what he was itching to do was see a certain Angelic book dealer and enemy-turned-friend, but lately he’d discovered that even thinking about Aziraphale made his heart contort in a way he didn’t want to investigate in any way shape or form, thank you very much.  
                  By the third day, Crowley had decided enough was enough and that he was done waiting for Aziraphale’s call. This is how he found himself idling behind the wheel of the Bentley outside of A.Z. Fell and Co, listening to rain splattering his windshield while he focused on his breathing to try and steady his heart[4]. He blessed under his breath and swung open the Bentley’s door, stepping out into the downpour.  
                  The bell to Aziraphale’s shop jingled appreciatively, happy to finally have a use[5], as Crowley shouldered open the door. An annoyed kind of sigh, followed by a prim voice, cut through the musty air.  
                  “I’m rather sorry but we’re unfortunately closed."  
                  There was a pause as Crowley peered around a dusty stack of books and caught Aziraphale's eye. Something was off. Crowley could feel it. There was no bright smile to greet him which made the shop look darker than normal, and there was a sad aura that permeated from its owner and fanned outwards into every nook and cranny.  
                  Crowley frowned and took a step forward.  
                  "What's wrong, Angel?"  
                  “Oh.. oh uh, it’s nothing dear fellow,” Aziraphale answered, offering a half smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes, as much as it wanted to. He hastily shoved the loose sheaths of paper he’d been poring over underneath a book, and prayed Crowley wouldn’t notice his shaking hands.  
                  He was out of luck.  
                  “Oscar Wilde?” Crowley asked, plucking a book from the table. He raised an eyebrow and peered over the rim of his glasses at Aziraphale, who had turned a delicious shade of pink. “What’s he done to upset you?”  
                  “I _said_ it was nothing,” Aziraphale insisted, drawing himself up to his full height[6] and catching Crowley’s wrist quickly. His nails dug into the skin a little, as if demanding he put the book back right now, and Crowley found himself rather enjoying the sensation. He filed that thought away quickly in a little compartment neatly labelled ‘do not open’.  
                  “Besides, you wouldn’t understand,” he heard Aziraphale mutter as he flexed his fingers under the angel’s grip. His stomach flipped over and subsequently tangled itself in knots.  
                  “Try me,” he breathed.  
                  Aziraphale sighed, releasing Crowley’s hand.  
                  The absence of the touch left the demon feeling a little lost, and he found himself craving more.  
                  “You’d better sit, then,” Aziraphale said. “And do give me my poor book back, it’s a rather lovely first edition and I don’t want it ruined, especially with what I’m about to tell you.”  
                  Intrigued, Crowley arranged himself on one of the chairs. No matter how many times he joined Aziraphale in the book shop, whether for a drink, or a chat, or just… for company, he was always shocked at how uncomfortable such comfortable looking chairs could be. He suspected it was to do with keeping customers out[7].

Aziraphale’s voice was soft when he spoke, and Crowley felt a pang of jealousy at the tenderness in his words. “It’s the anniversary of Oscar… I mean, Mr Wilde’s trial today. April 26th. He… he was imprisoned on homosexuality charges 124 years ago, and even now,” Aziraphale took a deep breath, trying to keep his voice from shaking. “Even now, I know I’m partly responsible.”  
                  There was an uncomfortable silence as Aziraphale moved some of the papers around and Crowley’s fists clenched involuntarily.  
                  “I’m sorry,” the demon spat, jaw set. “Are my ears deceiving me, Angel, or did you just imply that you slept with Oscar Wilde?”  
                  Aziraphale scrubbed a hand over his face and at least had the decency to look embarrassed. “I’m… not saying that. But I’m also not not saying that. We met a few times at the Albemarle Club and hit it off, as I do believe the humans say and… oh, don’t look at me like that Crowley!”  
                  “Sssso that letter your hand isss hovering by… that wasss written for you?” The look he was being shot was poisonous, and if Aziraphale didn’t know his adversary better he would have said that Crowley was jealous. That was ridiculous, of course. He couldn’t possibly be. But then again, his friend didn’t hiss very often any more - if he did, it was either because he’d forgotten himself, or he was completely plastered.  
                  “I don’t know what you mean,” Aziraphale answered quickly, scrambling for the piece of paper. It was too late; Crowley had already snapped his fingers, and the letter travelled the distance between the table and his hand in the blink of an eye. He held it gingerly, like one might hold an unexploded bomb or a bag full of dog poo.  
                  In a breathy and simpering voice, Crowley began to read.  
                  “My Own Boy, your sonnet is quite lovely, and it is a marvel that those red rose-leaf lips of yours should be made no less for the madness of music and song than for the madness of kissing. Your slim gilt soul walks between passion and poetry. I know Hyacinthus, whom Apollo loved so madly, was you in Greek days… Aziraphale are you kidding?”  
                  When he looked up, he knew immediately that he had gone too far. He’d been expecting the angel to chuckle at the voice, or reprimand him for being rude; what he had not expected was to see Aziraphale shaking slightly as he tried to contain his fury. Crowley was immediately awash in a sea of regret and wanted to say so, but before he could open his mouth to speak Aziraphale cut him off.  
                  “I think, Crowley,” his friend said, voice high and clipped. “I think it’s time you ought to be leaving. Now.”

■

The week that followed The Oscar Wilde Situation had been agonising. Aziraphale was dodging Crowley’s calls to the shop, avoiding his usual routes so as not to “accidentally” run into the demon, and generally refusing to engage with him. It was hell. Or, Crowley reasoned as someone who had been there on multiple occasions, at least what his personal version of hell would be if the boss had cared enough to cater it for each individual person.  
                  Eventually, Crowley decided enough was enough and that something needed to be done. That was how Aziraphale found him, huddled in the doorway of the bookshop in the pouring April rain, as he returned from a rather scrumptious sushi and saké evening. Crowley’s teeth were chattering, red hair plastered to his face, clothes sodden, and Aziraphale's resolve had immediately softened.  
                  “Oh, really now,” the angel had tutted, nudging the man out of the way with his foot so he could unlock the door. “You’ll catch your death out here and I shan’t have that on my hands, Crowley. I suppose you’d better come in and warm up.”  
                  That was how they came to be facing one another in the back room, Crowley bundled up in blankets, nursing a cup of tea, as Aziraphale steadfastly avoided his gaze.  
                  “M’sorry, Angel,” Crowley mumbled, pulling a hideous tartan blanket tighter around him. He was surprised to find it smelt like Aziraphale, all musty books with a hint of cloves. His barber's suggestion at a new cologne really was a good one, and he made a mental note to let his friend know sometime in future. His heart did a little leap that he definitely hadn’t given it permission to do.  
                  “I fucked up. I didn’t mean to upset you.”  
                  Aziraphale worried the hem of his waistcoat, silent for a moment.  
                  “The problem, Crowley, was that you didn’t think. You asked me what was wrong - pressured me into telling you when I didn’t want to, actually - and when I tried to explain it, you took something personal and… and _mocked_ me.”  
                  Aziraphale’s face was downcast.  
                  A lump formed in Crowley’s throat.  
                  “Oscar was an important part of my life. I rather think I might have loved him.”  
                  Crowley’s blood ran cold[8]. Aziraphale… loving someone? Someone mortal? Someone that was not him? Jealousy clawed at his insides.  
                  “I uh, I did some research after that night,” Crowley offered, trying to swallow the envy back down as he spoke. “I felt bad. Wanted to know what had happened. Didn’t they think that,” he waved his free hand around absently, “the letter you have was meant to be for uh… someone else?”  
                  “Lord Alfred Douglas, yes. I thought it best not to correct them, worried they might make his sentence worse if they thought he had more than one… lover… so I erased myself from history. I did everything I could, but it’s still partly my fault he ended up in prison.”  
                  Aziraphale closed his eyes, letting his head fall onto the seat back. He looked tired and sad, and Crowley had to resist every urge in his body not to get up and curl around him. He settled for leaning closer, resting a hand on the angel’s knee gently.  
                  “It wasn’t,” he answered softly. A single tear slipped down Aziraphale’s cheek, and he put a plump hand over Crowley’s, squeezing it gently in thanks.

When the sun eventually burst through the clouds a few hours later, their fingers were still entwined. Tomorrow, she promised as her rays illuminated the motes dancing in the air around them, would be better.

* * *

[1] Though, he mused, it wasn’t exactly as if they’d tell him now.      
[2] Aziraphale had made a quick but complicated hand movement and the Plane tree in question had decided to change its course, arcing neatly to the left around Crowley.  
[3] Merriam-Webster's Dictionary describes encouragement as: ‘to inspire with courage, spirit, or hope’. What Crowley did was the opposite - he scared them bloody shitless.   
[4] It was working overtime, and Crowley wished he could tell it to clock out and go home to its wife, but alas it wasn’t a person but a necessary organ to keep his man-shaped form alive.  
[5] It didn’t get them very often, what with its owner’s erratic opening hours and a general desire for customers to leave him and his lovely books alone.  
[6] This was meant to be threatening. It was anything but.  
[7] Aziraphale took customers as a personal insult and tried everything to make sure people would not come in; strange smells, irregular opening hours, rude service. The chairs, however, were not one. They really were just unfortunately uncomfortable.  
[8] Or, as he was already cold-blooded, it ran even colder than usual. It was not a pleasant feeling.


	2. Mercury and Retrograde

t had been weeks since Crowley had discovered Aziraphale’s _tryst_ with Oscar Wilde, and his imagination had been torturing him ever since. As far as he was concerned, the only person the angel should be tangoing[9] under the covers with was him; he had been in love with Aziraphale for 6000 years, for Satan’s sake, and not once had he been given any indication that sex was something his adversary had any desire to indulge in.  
                  Crowley groaned and shot a venomous look at the statue on his desk.  
                  “It’s Evil triumphin’ over Good”, the merchant had said. Crowley had raised an eyebrow at the suggestive pose, muttered a half-hearted ‘sure’, and given double the asking price. Now it was sat there, the two figures entwined suggestively, mocking him. He felt sick.  
                  Sex, Crowley thought, had always been his side’s, not Aziraphale’s, and yet it was the angel who had been indulging in the sins of carnal desire. It wasn’t fair, and Crowley needed some answers to stop the vision he had of Aziraphale writhing in pleasure every time he closed his eyes. It was like a Mutoscope he couldn’t escape from.  
                  His phone felt heavy in his pocket, a weight begging to be lifted, so he picked it up and dialled.  
                  The voice on the line sounded weary and fed up, as if nothing in the world could be worse than a phone call from a potential customer[10].  
                  “A.Z. Fell and Company, purveyors of rare books. Aziraphale speaking.”  
                  “Angel, hi.”  
                  Aziraphale’s tone softened as he relaxed. Crowley could almost see him now, leaning against the wall with his fingers playing with the telephone cord. His heart skipped a beat as he imagined what those hands would feel like curling in his hair instead.  
                  “Oh, Crowley,” he all but sighed, as if the demon had saved him[11]. “What can I do for you, my dear fellow?”  
                  “Get your coat on, I’m taking you for dinner. I’ll pick you up.”

■

That was how, fifteen minutes later, they joined the throng of cars trundling through Picadilly Circus. Crowley cursed the traffic system under his breath, and then realised it was his own doing[12].  
                  “You know,” Aziraphale murmured thoughtfully as Beethoven’s ‘I Want To Break Free’ blasted out of the car’s speaker and the pair watched youngsters weave in and out of the cars on push bikes. “I was once involved with someone who sometimes referred to me as his velocipede.”  
                  "Bicycle,” Crowley admonished, not for the first time. He was certain that the angel kept saying it to annoy him at this point, and was too distracted cursing out a BMW driver who had forced his way into the lane to fully register what Aziraphale had said.   
                  “Oh, yes, quite. He um,” Aziraphale flushed, putting a hand up to his mouth. “No, actually, no. Forget I said anything.”  
                  Crowley took his eyes off the road to stare incredulously at the angel.  
                  “Well, now you have to tell me.”  
                  There was a silence. Aziraphale’s face got even redder, and when he spoke, his voice was a scandalised whisper. “He… he called me his vel-, bicycle, and told me he’d like to… uh… ride me where he liked”.  
                  Crowley frowned. “You just quoted Queen, Aziraphale.”  
                  “No. No, I quoted the young man I was seeing back in 1976… or was it 1977? Anyway, the point is. I just quoted Freddie Mercury, not the Queen of England.”  
                  The light ahead of them turned red at the very moment Crowley braked so hard that the seatbelts in the Bentley had to work over time. Bloody decades he’d been listening to Queen, enjoying their songs, and Aziraphale had been _involved_ with the lead singer? He wanted to scream.  
                  There had been a bit of a terse silence for the rest of the drive, as Crowley ejected the CD from the Bentley’s sound system and dropped it, much to Aziraphale’s disapproval, out of the window. There was a sickening crunch as it split into a thousand shards under the car’s tyres.  
                  “We only shared a couple of kisses,” Aziraphale had said. “I saw him a couple of times, got invited to some parties. He was very forward, but I wasn’t particularly interested after such vulgar talk.”  
                  “I can’t bloody believe Freddie Mercury wrote a song about how he wanted to… do that to you,” Crowley had intoned, grip tightening on the Bentley’s steering wheel. “I can never listen to them again. This is the worst day of my life.”

■

When they reached the Ritz, Crowley had just about come to terms with what his friend had said. Their regular spot had magically freed itself of guests as they enquired about a table, and Aziraphale beamed with joy. Crowley found himself wishing he could make the angel smile like that every single minute of every single day for the rest of their lives, and he pushed any jealous thoughts back down. Freddie Mercury may have wanted Aziraphale, but he’d not got him, and Crowley’s relief was almost palpable.  
                  They ordered their regular (coffee, black, two sugars for Crowley; Earl grey and devil’s food cake for Aziraphale), making small talk with the waiter before settling into their seats. Aziraphale’s hand rested on the crisp tablecloth mere centimetres away, and Crowley fought every urge in his body that was screaming at him to lace their fingers together as he had a few days prior in the bookshop. He busied himself with dragging a hand through his hair, hoping it looked effortless and cool. A woman opposite swooned as Crowley caught her eye and winked, but Aziraphale stayed oblivious.  
                  “So listen,” Crowley begun, propping his elbow up on the back of his chair. “I’ve been thinking.”  
                  “Oh? That’s never good,” Aziraphale said around a forkful of cake. Crowley swatted at him, looking vaguely offended.  
                  “I was thinking,” he continued, “about you and wassisname… Wilde. Isn’t submitting to earthly delights breaking _some_ kind of rule?”  
                  Aziraphale almost choked on his mouthful, and Crowley made a quick hand gesture to clear his airways before things went South.  
                  “Is here really the place, my dear?” He asked, scandalised, when he’d recovered from a bought of coughing. "We're in the  _Ritz_."  
                  Crowley spread his hands innocently. “I just thought it was more of my lot’s things. Figured it was a sin or something.”  
                  “Gluttony is also a sin,” Aziraphale said diplomatically, motioning to the food before him. As Crowley peered at the cake, he noticed that despite the several mouthfuls he was _certain_ he’d seen the angel shovel down, the cake looked utterly untouched. “And I haven’t been reprimanded for my relationship with that. Truth be told, the first time I was… physically involved with anyone… I was rather worried I might Fall. But then nothing happened. It was all tickety-boo.”  
                  Crowley’s head snapped up, and he stared incredulously at Aziraphale.  
                  “The first time? I thought you said you'd turned Mercury down.”  
                  Aziraphale’s face contorted into a strange expression that was 50% smile, 50% grimace, and 100% worry.  
                  “Um, well, yes. I did turn him down. But there have been a few others over the millennia. People _like_ me,” the angel answered wretchedly, a blush creeping up his neck to colour his cheeks. He suddenly felt like you could fry an egg on his face. “Anyway, why are you so interested? I bet you’ve tempted lots of people, you snake.”  
                  Crowley steepled his fingers, regarding Aziraphale over his sunglasses.  
                  “If you must know, I’ve never indulged in that particular sin.” He swallowed before continuing, hoping that the tremor in his voice wouldn’t betray him. “There was someone I considered it with. I thought they weren’t interested in general but I had to accept, rather suddenly, that perhaps they just… didn’t want _me_.”  
                  A gentle hush settled over them, and Aziraphale fiddled with the chain on his pocket watch.  
                  “I find it hard to believe anyone wouldn’t want you,” he murmured. “I mean look at you.”  
                  Crowley snorted bitterly.  
                  “Look… at me? Angel, you’ve been looking at me for 6000 years. How on Satan’s green Earth have you not realised yet? You’re so clever. How can someone so clever be so stupid?” He drained the dregs of his coffee and pushed away from the table suddenly, irritated by the conversation and needing an escape. “I need some air. I’ll see you outside when you've finished your food.”  
                  There was a pop, unheard by the rest of the diners, as the air that had once caressed the figure of the demon was suddenly emptied.  
                  Aziraphale buried his face in a hand.  
                  That, he thought, could definitely have gone better. It could also have gone much, much worse too, and he was grateful that it hadn't but he hadn't anticipated Crowley getting quite so... worked up. In the centuries they'd been friends, Aziraphale had never seen him react in such a sharp manner; it seemed that when it came to this specific topic, Crowley was so tightly wound that any extra pressure could cause him to snap. Aziraphale had only been honest, though, answering the questions his friend had thrown at him. He'd only mentioned Freddie because the previous talk of Oscar Wilde had opened up a dialogue he never thought he could have with the demon, and the cyclists speeding past had jogged his memory. He had, unwittingly, admitted something important those weeks ago in the shop, and now he was being open about it he couldn't stop himself. He had just been trying to gossip with a friend the way he had overheard people doing in Soho, attempting to deepen that friendship, and since Crowley had been understanding at first - curious even - he thought it would be alright. Plus, he thought Crowley would have found the velocipede anecdote funny. Unfortunately, it was clear something had backfired. Crowley was hurting, and Aziraphale didn't know why.   
                  "Love," a little voice in the back of his head answered. "He's in love with you. Can't you see it, Aziraphale?"  
                  As soon as the realisation was there, he couldn't ignore it. The wistful gazes, the jealousy, the questions about his physical desires, the little speech about someone he wanted not wanting him - they all made sense. And what made even more sense was that the angel loved him, too.   
                 

Aziraphale broke his post-Armageddon non-swearing streak with a soft “fuck”.

* * *

[9] Aziraphale did not know how to tango vertically, let alone horizontally, being that the only dance he knew was the Gavotte, which had gone out of style centuries ago. He was still rather upset about this.  
[10] If you work in retail, or sales, or any other industry in which you have to adhere to the principle of ‘the customer is always right’, a phone call can, indeed, be the bane of your existence. This is especially true if you run a little bookshop with the sole aim of never selling a single book.   
[11] Again.  
[12] The intricate one way systems and no-through roads of London had all been helped along by his own hand, and he wondered why he’d never considered how it would also inconvenience him personally. Had that been brought up, he’d never have messed around with the bloody plans.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a quick thank you for all the lovely comments thus far! I wasn't expecting to write two chapters in one day, but inspiration strikes in strange ways! Please be warned, the chapter after this is probably going to take a bit more time because my writing process is a little bit strange. In the mean time, if you liked this and are waiting for an update, you might also like my other Good Omens fic - [Nightingale](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19130551) so maybe go and give that one a try, eh?


	3. Much Ado About Nothing

rowley was sulking. He wasn’t sure how he had expected the conversation with Aziraphale to go[13], but pacing around outside the Ritz nursing a bruised ego and a broken heart was not something he had envisioned[14]. When Aziraphale joined him outside, his face a perfect picture of concern for his friend, Crowley wished the ground would just swallow him up whole.  
                  He’d kept it secret for 6000 years, hiding feelings he’d been nursing for all that time, and in a split second he’d ruined it; in the space of a few minutes, clouded by jealousy, he’d opened a can of worms that he really wished he hadn’t. What if it all changed? How could an angel like Aziraphale ever love someone who had fallen as he had?  
                  Through his catastrophising, Crowley was vaguely aware that his friend was speaking.  
                  He was even more aware of both the heat seeping through his clothing and the comfortable weight of Aziraphale’s hand where it now rested on his forearm.  
                  “I’m sorry,” the angel was saying. “I hurt you. Unintentionally or not, I said something that upset you.”  
                  “Mmm,” Crowley mumbled, pulse quickening. He couldn’t say anything else; his tongue had tied itself in knots and was being very uncooperative.  
                  Aziraphale peered at him worriedly. “I rather think we need to talk, though, my dear. Work some things out, set some boundaries, suchlike.”  
The silence stretched on for what seemed like an eternity.  
                  After a few minutes, Aziraphale removed his hand and Crowley felt the loss of touch like a punch to the gut.  
                  “Or... or not,” the angel offered, shrinking into his coat. “I understand if you require some time before speaking to me again, of course.”  
                  “How many bottles of that nice Châteauneuf-du-Pape do you have back at the shop?” The demon asked, cutting Aziraphale off quickly.  
                  “Um, let me see. We drank five when we thought the End Times were upon us...” Aziraphale frowned. “Then we decided to get very un-drunk very fast so I suppose we still have those five, and there was at least another one.”  
                  “Right. Good. Because if we’re having this conversation, I really need to be drunk and somewhere familiar.” Crowley snapped his fingers and the Bentley doors opened. “Get in, angel.”  
                  Aziraphale did so quickly, climbing into the passenger seat. Once seated comfortably, he picked a stray thread on his lapel nervously, worrying about what the conversation and copious amounts of wine might do to their friendship. Like Crowley, he had been harbouring feelings for the supposed enemy[15] and, contrary to his protests over the years, the angel did like him. Aziraphale hadn’t said anything for fear of losing his best friend; he’d been content with friendship, staving off any craving for more by indulging, very rarely, in flings with humans. After all, even if there had always been something else between him and Crowley, something unspoken and real, it was never going to happen. They were on opposite sides. There was no hope for a relationship like that, and entertaining the idea would have only lead to heartbreak.  
                  And yet.  
                  Here they were, Crowley driving 90 miles per hour through Piccadilly[16], almost green with jealousy after all but admitting that he felt something too. Aziraphale tipped his head back, feeling the pressure of the headrest as it cradled his skull. His skin felt strange[17], like electricity was crackling beneath the surface and as he rolled his head sideways to look at Crowley, the sensation got stronger. He wondered if Crowley could feel it too.  
                  “How about some music?” Aziraphale asked, digging in the glove compartment to distract himself.  
                  “I’m sure I left some Tchaikovsky in here.”  
                  Crowley nodded nonchalantly, distracted as he made a very rude gesture to a yummy mummy[18] in a range rover as she cut him off around the Palace Theatre. Aziraphale slipped the CD into the slot in the stereo[19] and let the calming introduction of Tchaicovsky’s ‘Love Of My Life’ wash over him. Crowley made a strangled noise as the vocals kicked in and slammed the off button quickly.

■

Two bottles of wine in, the sun began to set. Long shadows stretched across the room, dust motes danced in the air, and an angel and demon were steadfastly avoiding the conversation they really wanted to have. Crowley had picked up a copy[20] of Romeo and Juliet and they had, instead, talked at great lengths about Shakespeare’s plays[21].  
                  “Tragediessss are boring,” Crowley had hiccuped, waving his free hand around. Aziraphale eyed his wine glass subtly, watching as the liquid threw itself against the sides in time with Crowley’s erratic movements, but didn’t quite spill over. “Ssss no wonder Hamlet was a flail- ff- failure, too... sssad. I did him a really big favour helping that one along.”  
“You did that one for me,” Aziraphale mumbled happily. His plump face was flushed, but his smile was radiant. “B-Because I... I took Scotland. Had to ride a horse... hard on the bottom, jus’likeyousaid.”  
                  “Told you. Bony creaturessss horsssess... wonder why She,” He pointed upstairs conspiratorially, and Aziraphale leaned in towards him. His pulse quickened and he momentarily lost his train of thought as he breathed in the smell of cloves and old books coming from his friend. “Wonder why She made them like that.”  
                  “Ineff- ineffy-”  
                  “Don’t sssay it.”  
                  “Ineffability,” Aziraphale beamed, choosing to ignore the eye-roll he got in response. “Anyway, I like Shakespeare’s tragedies. They’re...”  
                  “Tragic?”  
                  Aziraphale huffed and put a finger to his lips in a shushing motion. Crowley grinned.  
                  “They are, angel! I mean take Romeo and poor Juliet, poor sodsss. Meant for each other. Overcoming’ the diffi- difficult- challenges, battling families to be together... and then poof! They’re just dead. What’sss fun about watchin’ that?”  
                  Aziraphale saw an opening and by God, he was not going to let this one slip through his fingers. Opportunities to _say_ something had passed him by for years, haunting him; this one was not escaping. His voice was shaky when he spoke.  
                  “Battling families, overcoming odds... sounds a bit like us, really.”  
                  “Your lot and mine aren’t really families, are they?”  
                  “Mmm, ’suppose not,” the angel said slowly. He closed his eyes, and some of the bottles around them got a bit more full. He wanted to be sober[22] for this.  
                  “But we fought them all. Carved out our own reality. No more warring sides… and we’re both alive.” Aziraphale paused, shifting from his position on the floor. He laid a hand on Crowley’s knee. “We’re here, together.”  
                  Crowley drew a sharp, ragged breath.  
                  “We’re on our side,” he offered.  
                  The angel nodded, cheeks more flushed than before. His palms felt sweaty, his knees weak, arms spaghetti[23].  
                  “About... About what you said in the Ritz? You’re right. I have been looking at you for 6000 years. But somewhere around the 1940s, I realised I was looking at you in a... a different way. You stopped being the enemy. You became a friend...” Aziraphale paused.  
                  “And then I... I rather suppose I fell in love. With you. And I didn’t say anything because an angel falling for a demon is unheard of, and there’s no way you could love me back so I had to get… _creative_ to deal with the feelings which is what happened with Oscar Wilde and Freddie Mercury and Shakespeare and the others.”  
                  Crowley’s eyes were as wide as saucers beneath his glasses. He took them off and stared at Aziraphale suspiciously.  
                  “What was that?” He asked.  
                  “S-Shakespeare and the others?”  
                  “No! No. The uh, the bit before that. Began with an L, sounded like dove?”  
                  Aziraphale’s heart caught in his throat and he rested his cheek gently on Crowley’s thigh, blue eyes looking up at his friend nervously. If you were to freeze the moment, to capture the scene in a snapshot as Crowley wished to do, the scene would have looked like something out of a Jean-Honoré Fragonard painting.  
                  “I... I fell in love with you.”  
                  There was a pause as Crowley basked in the words. Candles flickered around them, and Aziraphale was half draped across his lap looking scared, and bashful, and so goddamn cherubic that Crowley thought he must, somehow, have been allowed back into heaven.  
                  “I was wondering when you’d catch up,” he answered, thickly. The words on his tongue felt heavy, charged even, and he could feel the alcohol slowly evaporating from his system. “I’ve loved you since we first met, as soon as I learnt that you’d given that blasted sword away. I was damned from the start, really.”  
                  Aziraphale glowed. In the candlelight, Crowley could almost see the halo ringing his head, and he bent forward to bury his nose in the waves of Aziraphale’s hair. He exhaled softly, letting years of worry melt away.  
                  "Angel,” Crowley breathed, eyes closed. “Can I kiss you?”  
                  Aziraphale shifted his position on the floor, and Crowley swallowed hard; the angel now knelt, with hands on either side of his thighs, between his legs.  
                  “Have saints not lips?” came the answer, and no sooner had Aziraphale finished his words did Crowley surge forward of his own accord, pressing their lips together. Aziraphale sighed happily into the kiss and brought a hand up to Crowley’s cheek, cupping it gently as they said everything they’d ever wanted to in one action.  
                  When they eventually drew apart, Crowley was flushed. Aziraphale rested his forehead against Crowley's, bringing a neatly manicured hand to his own mouth and smiled.  
                  “I’ve wanted to do that for a long time,” the angel said, softly. His face was delightfully pink, and Crowley wanted to kiss him until they both ran out of breath.  
                  “Me too. So, would you...” the demon paused, flashing his friend a devilish grin. He knew exactly what effect the next words would have. “Give me my sin again?”  
                  Aziraphale all but melted.

 

* * *

[13] Part of him had hoped that Aziraphale would get the message and fall into his arms, but when was anything in his life ever that simple?      
[14] It was, however, how Agnes Nutter, Witch, had foreseen it.   
[15] The enemy, it turned out, was more loveable than Heaven had anticipated, and Aziraphale had been in trouble from the moment they met.    
[16] Which everyone knows is impossible, meaning if they _were_ to see a big black car speeding through the maze that is Piccadilly Circus, they would eventually conclude that it was a trick of the mind. It would take a demonic miracle to bomb down past one of London’s tourist sites at 90 miles per hour, after all.  
[17] Granted, his skin always felt strange; containing a celestial being in a human body wasn’t an easy feat. There had been several millennia of testing up in Heaven, and this had been the best they could come up with. Please try not to think about what happened with the failures. Your version will be nicer than reality.  
[18] For those readers who live outside of the United Kingdom, a “Yummy Mummy” is a commonly used slang term used to describe young, attractive, and wealthy mothers with rich, high-powered husbands. Think yoga, avocado on toast, and driving big cars designed for rural use in an urban area and you’ll be in the right ball-park.   
[19] Crowley had updated the Bentley’s hardware sometime in the 1990s after cassettes became more and more obsolete. It had gone through several updates, and the sleek new version looked out of place in the rest of the Bentley’s classic interior. Crowley loved it anyway.  
[20] It was a second edition, and had been signed by the bard himself and, if you looked carefully, there was a little squiggle that looked _remarkably_ like a heart next to Aziraphale’s name.   
[21] Aziraphale did, at least. Crowley for the most part just sat and listened, only joining in to say things he knew would rile the angel up. It was one of his favourite past times.  
[22] Or at least semi-sober.  
[23] Author’s note: I’m sorry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for the lovely comments over the course of this fic so far! I've not written something multi-chaptered in a while and going forward, it's definitely going to take a little bit for me to get things written but I'm hopefully going to have something for you within the next two weeks!    
>  I hope you all enjoyed this chapter, and as always comments and kudos are greatly appreciated!


End file.
